“I don’t know what you mean!” The monster’s face suddenly surged out of the blackness, inches away from Conor’s.
“You do know,” it said, low and threatening. And there was a sudden quiet.
Because, yes, Conor knew. He had always known. The truth. The real truth.
The truth from the nightmare. “No,” he said, quietly, as the blackness started wrapping itself around his neck.
“No, I can’t.” “You must.” “I can’t,” Conor said again.
“You can,” said the monster, and there was a change in its voice. A note of something. Of kindness.
Conor’s eyes were filling now. Tears were tumbling down his cheeks
and he couldn’t stop them, couldn’t even wipe them away because the nightmare’s tendrils were binding him now,
had nearly taken him over completely. “Please don’t make me,” Conor said. “Please don’t make me say it.”
“You let her go,” the monster said. Conor shook his head. “Please–” “You let her go,” the monster said again.
Conor closed his eyes tightly. But then he nodded. “You could have held on for longer,” the monster said,
“but you let her fall. You loosened your grip and let the nightmare take her.”
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